Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 38711 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 129(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38711 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 129(@300wpm)
A dead ringer for the asshole in the dream, although the yellow fabric was much less luxurious, and the hems of their robes and hood had just begun to fray. Probably the younger model of the other priest, still doing fieldwork.
The priest carried two weapons: the same curved knife Finn saw in his vision and a weird-looking axe that hung on their left hip, with a shaft made from a twisted tree limb. The axe handle was wrapped in a braided cord and terminated in a narrow, brutal axe-head, less a blade and more a wide spike.
The person next to the priest was taller, with broad shoulders, their garment layered, but fitted tighter and cut simpler, more a knight’s tabard than a priest’s robe, caught just above the hips by a plain black belt. An ornate black scabbard hung from the belt, holding a sword with a black handle. Their cloak was plain and gray, and a long, yellow sash dripped from underneath, its edges tattered. A gray half-mask guarded the face within the hood. The eyes above the mask were dark and cold under thick, brown eyebrows.
A priest and a knight. Magic and melee, both covered.
Behind the odd pair, Wayne and Fulton waited, looking unsure. Fulton leaned on a makeshift cane made from a freshly cut sapling. The flight through the woods must’ve ended in a rough landing. Heh. Wayne had developed some weird-looking bumps on his face. They seemed to be oozing pus. What do you know, the little bird still packed a punch even with one head.
“The priest has the same knife as in my dream,” Finn said.
“And what does that tell you?”
“The knife is ceremonial. It’s used in sacrifices. They have the kind of religion that makes their priests carry sacrificial knifes all the time.”
Smart kid. Morena had chosen well.
Wayne opened his mouth.
Roman focused, pulling the sound to himself.
“So, like I was saying,” Wayne explained, “The boy is inside, and the priest took out half of my team.”
The gray and yellow duo showed no indication of having heard or cared.
“He is packing serious power,” Fulton said. “I wouldn’t recommend going in there balls to the wall.”
The knight unsheathed their sword. A straight double-edged affair, about three feet overall with a thirty-inch blade. Good for cutting and thrusting.
Here we go. “Finn, go to the back room where the fridge is. Turn left. There is a box sitting on the second shelf, looks like a pirate chest. Bring it to me.”
Finn took off running.
Behind the knight, the priest raised their hands. Magic snapped between their fingertips, an invisible, jagged line of power. The priest stretched it, shaping it, their movements practiced and complex, almost hypnotic, a blend of martial and ritual.
“What’s the plan?” Fulton demanded. “Do you want us to back you up? Do you need auxiliary support?”
The magic gained color. It wasn’t a glow or a radiance. No, it was viscous, a kind of ichor or plasma stretching between the priest’s hands, a bright, shocking yellow that smudged and hung in the air. It felt like nothing Roman had experienced. Divine and yet not divine, filtered through human magic, but not limited to it. Alien. Unnatural.
What the actual fuck…
The knight spun in place, twisting and turning, their hands snapping into well-practiced forms. Yellow plasma sheathed the knight’s sword.
Finn rounded the corner, slid across the floor, and thrust the chest at him.
They would need to be outside for this. Roman swiped Klyuv from its spot against the wall, stuck the staff into his armpit, and took the chest. The front door swung open in front of him on its own. Roman stepped onto the porch, sending a spike of power through each foot as it touched the floorboards. The skulls on the posts burst into blue fire, rattling their jaws.
The knight and priest paused.
Now you know what you’re dealing with. Walk away and live.
The priest twisted, spinning their yellow ichor. The knight started forward, slow, deliberate, unhurried.
It’s like that then? Fine.
Roman set his staff down, planting Klyuv into the porch boards. The staff remained upright, held by magic. Klyuv’s vicious eyes rotated in their orbits. The wicked beak gaped in a silent scream and clacked closed, crushing imaginary bones. Darkness poured out of the spot where the staff met the floor, spreading along the ground, blanketing the front yard in a foot of evil fog.
The knight took two more steps, untroubled. The darkness swirled around them, clinging to their boots and pants.
A ring of yellow plasma formed behind the priest, eight feet tall, and it hung there like a wagon wheel with the familiar irregular spoke arrangement.
Roman flicked his left hand. A giant bone hand erupted from the ground and backhanded the knight. The warrior flew backward a few yards, flipped in the air, and landed on their feet just outside of the boundary. The mask cracked and fell off, revealing a man in his late twenties.